Silver or Lead
by BarefootRunner68
Summary: Tulsa is a dangerous place. The Curtis brothers will do anything to protect each other. This time, protecting his brothers is going to cross legal boundaries.
1. Chapter 1

"I better start practicing my drawl," Striker commented. "Looks like we have entered hicksville USA."

The driver grunted, and I could tell he was slighted by the comment. I smacked Striker. This ride from the airport to Tulsa was taking longer than I wanted. I was jet legged and needed to move. The weather was dreary.

"Will you shut up," I snapped. I was starting to re think this so called mission.

The car pulled up to a yellow house with white picket fence. I watched as a round man came running out of the house followed by a woman in a dress and apron. I couldn't help but roll my eyes. I felt like I was trapped in an episode of Leave it to Beaver. Even worse, who knew how long I would trapped here. I watched as Striker hugged his family. The driver unloaded our stuff from the truck. I stepped out into the cold Tulsa air. The first thing on my agenda was to get a coat. This weather was a far cry from Florida's.

"Sir, do you know much about this area?" I asked. I adjusted my baseball hat to look at him. He was some type of Latin decent.

He nodded as he set down the last of our suitcase. I dug around in my back pocket for my wallet to tip him. Poor guy had to put up with Striker and his stupid comments. I forked over a couple of bucks. A gust of wind sent shivers down my spine. I already hated Tulsa.

"It snow here?" I asked. I had never seen snow before. It looked gorgeous in pictures, but I didn't want to experience it.

"You need to get yourself a coat, son. This ain't the sunshine state," he said, slamming the trunk of the cab shut.

I looked up at the gray skies. The sun was nowhere insight. I bet people got ghostly pale around here in the winter. "Believe me, I know."

I was quickly ushered into the Striker household. After being stuffed to my limits with food, I was then brought down to the basement for private conversation. Jack Sticker had been on the police force for over thirty years, and his basement contained the evidence. He must of had a million police related nick knacks. Pictures hung on his wall of him in uniform. It was a time line of his career. The first picture began with him passing the academy, and the last was him becoming Chief. Another wall was filled with awards he had received. The basement resembled a little boy's playroom, expect instead of having dinosaurs it had police memorabilia.

I sat down on a beat up plaid couch. I wanted a cigarette, but they didn't promote smoking in the house. I was twenty six and not permitted to smoke in the house. This job was too stressful not to smoke.

"Son, are you nervous?" Jack asked. He stared at my bouncing legs; it was my one nervous habit. I hated when people called me son. That was a pet name that only a father was allowed to call his kid. My father died before I was out of the womb.

"Ignore it," Tom chimed in. "He has chromic ants in his pants."

Jack smirked. I had heard that time on the force could age a man beyond his years. Jack more than earned every wrinkle on his face. Stress from the job had torn out every hair from his head.

"Anyways men, I told you guys we got a huge drug problem here in Tulsa. After the past few months, we have come to the understanding that a large portion of it is being passed through the high school. Three kids over dosed themselves with opiates in the fall. We got kids dropping out due to gang violence. Gang violence is directly related with drugs. Eighteen students were caught with marijuana this year," he explained, rubbing the stress lines on his forehead

"You brought me all the way out here to babysit," I shouted. I couldn't help but get a little heated. I was told coming here was going to be a benchmark for my career. It was my third undercover job, and I was thrilled to be hand picked for it.

"Look, I know this may seem like a joke, but kids don't get drugs of these proportions from the science lab. Someone is providing the drugs either a gang or a drug lord. Kids talk, it will be easier to get information from them. I talked to Saint Petersburg's chief for the sole purpose because Tom is my nephew. You came highly recommended for the job. If you feel the job is not good enough for you, then get out now," he said. He had a calm demeanor.

I stopped bouncing my knees. He was a higher ranking officer and an elder; I owed him respect.

"What is the assignment?" I asked. I was far from the warm beach, but I had a feeling that I was stuck in the ocean with the water way above my head, and it wasn't even high tide yet.

"Look, kids talk, they let things slip. We listen and we figure out who is supplying the drugs. Shayne, you are the history teacher at Will Rogers. Tommy, you are the janitor," Jack said. He ginned a little as he handed me a stack of papers.

"I don't do kids," I said. "I've never been around any for this long. I don't know how to talk to them. Why can't I be the janitor?"

Jack let out an airy laugh. " You have the history degree. Calm down, you don't need to talk to them. You just need to teach them and watch them."

This case was going to put years on me. I always kept my hair high and tight, but this was going to make me bald. I guess it was a good think I liked wearing hats.

* * *

><p>I leaned against the oak headboard. The room we were sharing at Jack's had a patriotic theme. I rubbed my hand over my metal dog tags. It was making me reminisce of my days as a Marine. God, those were the best days of my life.<p>

"You'll have to take those off tomorrow. They have your name on it," Tommy said. He pointed to my dog tags.

"Do you got a smoke? They don't come off," I stated firmly. The Marine Core was the only thing that connected me to my Dad.

He dug around in his bag, and produced a pack of Lucky Strikes. "Here, just open the window," he said. He tossed the tin can on my bed.

"We have to quit calling each other by our last names," I said. I found a paper with my class list on it. I began reading over the names. I wanted to try to match names on my list to the pictures in the yearbook.

"Come tomorrow, I am Janitor Jacobs, and you are Mr. Gram. We get to keep our first names," he said. There was a hint of anxiety in his voice. We all got a little anxious before the job, but he was the only one who showed it

"This is ridicules," I groaned. I flicked my cigarette out the window. "This better be worth my time."

"Shayne, I pity those poor kids who have to have you for a teacher," Tommy grinned. "Remember, this is high school, not the Marines."

I rolled my eyes at his comment. He was one of the guys on the force that wanted me to "loosen up" and toss out my militant ways. "Have you seen my class list? No wonder the kids here do drugs. This kid is named Ponyboy Curtis. Did his parents drop acid and name him?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Sodapop, I need a carwash," he shouted impatiently. The dark hair man stepped in front of me, and threw some money on the counter. It wasn't even the afternoon and the guy reeked of beer. The kid behind the counter grabbed the cash. I wondered if Sodapop was a nickname.

"Okay, Mr. Cade. I'll be right out," Soda said. The kid seemed slightly intimidated by the dark man. I couldn't blame him. Mr. Cade looked like just got released from prison.

"Little cold for a car wash," I said. The guy needed a shower. He clearly took more pride in his car than his actual appearance.

The dark haired man smiled. "Yup, that's why I make these little shits do it."

I set my coffee on the counter. The Strikers didn't believe in coffee. My morning wasn't fully started until my second cup. I was stuck with getting gas station coffee.

"This it, sir?" The boy asked.

I nodded taking a good look at the kid. He couldn't have been older that eighteen. "Shouldn't you be in school, and not washing cars in freezing cold weather?" I asked.

The boy grinned. "It's only bad when it snows out. Who are you? I haven't seen you around here before."

"I'm the new teacher at the high school," I answered. God, that was the last thing I ever wanted to come out of my mouth.

"Maybe you'll have my brother. He's really smart. His name is Ponyboy," he said. He flashed me a smile.

I couldn't help but smile back. That explained his name. I took both cups of coffee. How many more of these morons around here named their kids ridicules things?

* * *

><p>I leaned against the wall letting the coldness of the brick hit my back. I needed more coffee. This was only my second day. I held a pop quiz that my first two classes failed. I mean the entire damn class failed it.<p>

"Rough day?"

I opened my eyes to see George Syme sitting at the table with a large stack of papers in front of him. He had just been voted teacher of the year in all of Oklahoma.

"Something like that," I answered, making my way over to the coffee. "Vietnam was easier than teaching."

He began laughing shaking his head at me. "Yes, I've heard that you mirrored a drill sergeant from the kids."

"I can name a few kids who could really benefit from boot camp," I said. I sat down next across from him. "Good Lord, I thought I had a lot to grade."

George looked up at me. He flipped through a couple of pages. "Actually, this was a theme Ponyboy Curtis wrote. It's really good; I think it should be published. I had him add a few things to it. I'm going back through it before I send it off."

I couldn't help but feel surprised. "I didn't think many of them could actually think about anything other than their hair."

He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Look, this school has been though a lot and it isn't even Christmas break yet. Just go easy on them. They are still just kids. They might actually surprise you."

I just sort of nodded. "So what is his book about?"

"It's about social injustice, seeing past appearances, and family," he answered.

"Now I know what to expect from him," I said. I was sort of surprised.

George smirked, "You can never know what to expect from kids like him."

I just sort of nodded. I didn't know what to say. I grabbed my coffee and wondered back to my classroom. The bell rang reminding the student to exchange classrooms. I propped myself up on my desk and watched my students come filing in. It was typical high school. Jocks stood around flirting with giggling teenagers. The hoods in the making glared at me and sat at their desk attempting to look tough.

"Guess what time it is?" I said with a big happy grin. "How many of you did last nights reading?"

The class fell silent and I heard a few groans. I could tell none of them did the assigned reading. I saw an empty chair in the front row by my desk.

"Who is missing?" I asked. No one answered. They didn't half too. A blond headed kid stepped into the room.

"Sorry," Ponyboy said, sliding into the desk. "I was talking to Coach Benson."

"It doesn't matter," I told him. "I told you guys, I don't like late attendance. Considered five points deducted from this quiz. If you don't already get a zero."

I lifted the map up to show the quiz questions and let them get started. Striker peaked his head in and gestured for me to come out.

"What's going on?" I whispered.

"We have to pick things up, and that's an order. I got keys. I am going to start checking lockers. He wants something done today," he explained.

I rolled my eyes. I had discovered that his Uncle was not a patient man. I had no clue what I was going to do. I walked back into the class.

"I don't even understand why we need history," Curly said.

"You don't now?" I questioned. "Pass your tests in."

"History is the reason we all exist. It is where we come from. It is said that personal history effect personal achievements," I explained. Then it clicked. "I want you guys to tell me about your history. I want a timeline off all major events that happened in your life each year. I need three events for each year. You can present Friday. Maybe I can understand things about your guys; like why Mr. Curtis is late," I said.

"Because he has no parents," Kevin Sheldon shouted.

It hit me like a brick. I looked over at Pony and his face blanched, and his lips drew thin. I felt bad for the kid.

"Act like a child, and I'll treat you one. You can stand in the corner for this remainder of the class," I yelled, pointing to the corner between the wall and door. "I better not hear one word from you."

I went on with the lecture that day. I couldn't help but feel bad. I thought about what George Syme had said to me earlier. I didn't expect that at all. I found Pony outside after school. He was sitting on the steps of the school smoking.

"Hey kid," I said. "Mind if I sit down."

Pony looked up at me like I had grown a third head. "If you want," he answered. He through his cancer stick on the ground.

"You got an A on the quiz. Even with the five points subtracted. You are the only one," I said, trying to break the ice.

"Tough, that will make my brother happy," he said. He smiled a little bit.

"My Dad died too. That bull Kevin pulled today. It isn't okay," I said.

"It's fine. My friend Johnny killed his brother," he explained. He picked up pace on the picture he was drawing.

My jaw dropped. "What?" I asked. I wasn't able to control the amount of shock or confusion in my voice.

"His brother and friends were drunk, and they tried to drown me. My friend stabbed him," Pony explained. His voice cracked a bit, but his facial expression hardened.

I had no clue what to say. I never really was good with words or talking to kids. Lucky for me, I got saved when a car with two guys inside pulled up. The car was painted black, lowered, and clearly souped up for racing.

"Come on Pony. We are getting Soda, and then getting some burgers." A rusty haired kid leaned out the driver side window. The guy had sideburns like Frankenstein.

Pony picked up his stuff and advanced toward the car. "Hey, I'm sorry about your Dad," he said.

"Ponboy get a move on," the dark hair kid shouted. His hair was swirled; he clearly spent way too much time on it.

"Hold your horses, Steve," he shouted. Pony grinned back at me and climbed into the back seat. I watched the car peel out of the school parking lot. I shook my head. Those idiots were going to kill someone or themselves.

* * *

><p>"So what are we doing?" Tommy asked. He flopped on his bed. It was Friday night. We agreed we would go to a bar at some point. We need to escape this house, and not to go to work.<p>

"Grading papers," I answered.

"You find anything in those time lines?" He reached over and looked through my graded ones.

"Here and there," I answered. "We won't find out much until we run backround checks on the families. I think we need to keep an eye on this Sheldon boy."

I held up his time line. Stricker leaned foreword and squinted. He began laughing when he saw what I was speaking about.

"Age ten, first beer," he read. "Here, let me finish grading this one for you."

I handed the timeline over and picked up Ponyboy's. I looked down scanning over the pictures, and his sloppy handwriting. The kid was actually a good artist. My heart stopped in my chest as I scanned it. It was the last face I ever expected to see.

"Oh my God," I choked out. The air was running out of my room. I felt sweat bead up on head.

Tommy looked up at. "Did you find something?"

"My Dad," I said. My words were coming out airy. I pointed to the picture with his name on top of it.

"You ask everyone with the last name Curtis if they know your Dad. You know that is a popular name," Tommy said. He was talking to me like I was a wounded animal.

"No, this is my Father. Darrel Curtis is his name," I threw the timeline at him and went to the drawer. I pulled out a picture book and flipped to the picture of my parents at the state fair. It was when they first met, and one of two pictures we had of him. I showed Tommy.

"Holy shit," he said.

I slipped my dog tag off my neck. "See, it is Darrel Curtis."

"I thought your old man died in Germany or something. This is freaky," he said.

It was too much. I heard Tommy yell but I couldn't hear him any longer. The room flipped upside down. My head hit the floor, and it all went dark.


End file.
